Now you're gone, and nobody says a wordabout your troubled and exalted life.Only my voice, like a flute, will mournat your dumb funeral feast.Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,I, sick with grief for the buried past,I, smoldering on a slow fire,having lost everything and forgotten all,would be fated to commemorate a manso full of strength and will and bright inventions,who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.